Electric
by leoandsnake
Summary: Maverick and Iceman, due to unforeseen circumstances, are forced to live together. Iceman sees it as a chance to get Maverick to straighten up his act, but he's the one who winds up bending. Iceman/Maverick.


Iceman was convinced it was Maverick's fault.

He just _knew_ Maverick had left the stove on and gone for a leisurely walk, or tried to stop a fire by throwing vodka on it, but no, everyone said it had been an _electrical_ fire and _not his fault at all_ and had been fawning over him ever since. "Oh, _poor_ Mitchell, that's too bad, let's make him a casserole."

Fuck, thought Iceman, if you got this much attention for burning your own house down, he wasn't sure why more people didn't try it.

But then someone had volunteered Iceman to take him in.

Viper told him it was because he was the most responsible student at the academy, and probably the most hospitable, and Iceman had bit his lip the entire time to stop from screaming out "_BULLSHIT_!" at the top of his lungs. This was some crack-pot plan to get Iceman and Maverick to play nice, and everyone knew it. Iceman wouldn't even be surprised to find out that Viper had set the fire himself, stuck a fork in one of Maverick's electrical sockets or something.

Hollywood had adopted all of it as his current pet conspiracy theory. Last month he had been obsessed with the JFK assassination, and now he had taken to popping out from behind corners questioning Maverick about the validity of the situation. Finally Maverick had cracked and punched Hollywood square in the nose. Iceman would never admit it to anyone, but he was kind of impressed.

Conversely, he was absolutely horrified by _living_ with Maverick.

Over the last few weeks Maverick had said to him an entire host of nasty things, including "you uptight OCD pussybitch" and "it's no wonder you don't have a girlfriend, she would kill herself five seconds after you asked her to move in".

But how was Iceman supposed to react when Maverick used the hand towels from the front bathroom to wipe his _shoes_, and walked around the house wearing only dog tags and boxers, and _used Iceman's toothbrush without telling him_?

Really, what the _hell_?

* * *

It was the _coup de grâce _when Iceman returned home one evening to find Maverick having sex on his couch.

The girl looked to be about twenty, with blonde hair that was tangled with sweat. She occasionally let out a noise as Maverick thrusted on her.

Iceman stood in the doorway and watched, kissing his anger goodbye. It wasn't going to help him here. He needed a plan.

Maverick _finally_ noticed him, gave a yelp of alarm, and sat bolt upright. The girl sat up too, saw Iceman, and screamed at an ungodly pitch.

"Afternoon, Mitchell," Iceman drawled, looking straight at him.

"Uh, Katie," Maverick said, handing her his shirt while keeping his eyes on Iceman, "maybe you should go..."

She grabbed it from him and dashed out of the room.

Maverick pulled his boxers on. The little strip of hair along his lower stomach, leading toward his crotch, was still visible.

"So, Kazansky," Maverick said. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Actually, no," Iceman said.

"No, you wanted my balls," Maverick snapped, "and now you have them. So, what? Are you kicking me out?"

"Shut up, Mitchell, I'm trying to think."

"_What_?"

And then it came to him.

"One-on-one hop," Iceman said shortly. "Bring your RIO, I'll bring mine. Whoever gets gunned down first has to do whatever the other wants."

"What do you want?"

"You'll find out."

Maverick glared at him. "Fine. And if _I_ win, I get to do what the fuck I want without you getting your panties in a wad."

Iceman rolled his eyes. "Unlikely, Mitchell," he said, turning around and leaving the living room before Maverick could react.

* * *

"He thinks he's going to win," Iceman said dismissively, looking over at Maverick as he and Slider readied their jet.

"And we _know_ we're going to win," Slider told him. "Forget about it. This look okay to you?"

"It's fine," Iceman told him, climbing into the cockpit. "Yeah, we should be good," he said, tugging at a cable.

"How'd you get clearance for a solo hop, anyway?" Slider said, sounding impressed.

"My superiors love me," Ice said, sliding his helmet on. "Instruments and gauges fully functional," he said.

He clicked on the comm. "You up for this, Mitchell?"

"Just_ do it, _Kazansky," Maverick snapped, sounding fidgety and wired.

They were up within a few minutes.

"You see him?" Slider said.

"No," replied Iceman. "Don't worry about it, he'll come."

All of a sudden Maverick's plane went into a spectacular dive in front of them. Iceman turned in the air to get a better angle.

"What do you think he's trying to do?" Slider said, sounding nervous.

"Shut up," Iceman said, and it wasn't mean, just sharp.

He waited.

"He's got tone on us, Ice!"

Iceman pulled up and burst away from Maverick, supersonic. He turned again and fingered the controls.

"What are you _doing_?"

"He has to come to us," Iceman murmured.

"Getting worried, Kazansky?" crackled Maverick's voice in his ear.

"Why, Mitchell, are you?"

"Hell no," Maverick said, but his voice cracked. It was something most could barely hear, but Iceman heard everything.

He grinned and crept forward.

There was Maverick, a sitting duck in the middle of the canyon.

"Shit," Iceman heard Goose say.

"Ice," Slider said warningly.

The way Iceman's plane moved forward, it was like a snake, a calculated moment of pure force. It was over before either of them knew what happened, Iceman had missile lock on him, had fired, and Maverick was swearing over the comm.

Back on the ground, Maverick stormed off. Iceman watched him go, knowing where he was headed.

"Nice job," Iceman told Slider, and set forth to follow.

* * *

Iceman closed the front door behind him and stepped into silence.

"Mitchell," he said, the two syllables lazy and impassive.

Maverick appeared, approached Iceman in the foyer and leaned on the wall with his shoulder.

"You won," Maverick said.

Iceman was quiet for a moment. He stepped a bit closer to Maverick.

"I've been thinking, Maverick," he said, "about what I want you to do."

He stepped even closer. Maverick's breathing quickened.

Iceman put a hand on the wall beside Maverick, blocking his exit. "I _was _going to tell you to straighten up your act and stop, for instance, bringing girls into my house and nailing them on my sofa, but that's not what you need."

They were extremely close now. Maverick's nipples were clearly erect under his shirt.

"What you need," said Iceman quietly, "is to be taken down a notch, Mitchell."

Maverick's pupils were blown; he was looking up at Iceman doe-eyed with a mix of apprehension and hunger.

"You _want_ it too," Iceman added softly.

Maverick straightened up defiantly. "I don't want _anything_ from you, Kazansky," he hissed.

"Not even this?" Iceman said, sliding his hand against Maverick's ass, fingers dragging against soft flesh underneath denim.

Maverick gasped involuntarily, falling against Iceman slightly; Iceman caught him and pushed him into the living room.

"You like feeling out of control, right, Mitchell?" Iceman whispered in his ear. "Even if it means you don't come out _on top_..."

"What are you going to do?" Maverick whispered.

"What I want," Iceman said.

He shoved Maverick against the sofa, already hard against him.

"Comfortable?"

"Yes," Maverick breathed, pressing back against Iceman's crotch, leaving no atom of space between them, their twin scents of sweat lingering in the air.

Iceman's fingers swept across Maverick's crotch, teasing his fly. Maverick was quivering with tension beneath him.

Iceman felt a swell of quiet power rise inside him. He bit down on his lip, drawing blood, staying inside the moment. This had to be carefully, almost artfully done, if he wanted to fully make his point.

He didn't bother undoing the top button, just grazed his finger inside the hole and it undid itself from the building pressure against the fly. Ice tugged at the zipper gently, with an excrutiatingly slowness. He wondered if Maverick would beg if he kept this up, but Maverick said nothing, just pressed himself as deeply against Iceman as he could, back muscles rippling under his shirt.

Iceman hooked his thumb in Maverick's beltloops and pulled his jeans down just a bit. He ran a finger against the exposed flesh. Maverick's breath hitched. The quivering had become a tremble; an explosive, kinetic energy underneath Iceman's fingers to do with as he wished.

He slid the jeans down a little further. Maverick's legs spread slightly on his touch.

"_Tom_," Maverick burst out, like he was swearing.

"Yeah," Iceman replied, as he slid into Maverick, his voice even and controlled.

Maverick clenched the fabric of the couch in white-knuckled fists and rocked back against Iceman. Iceman moved forward and trapped Maverick between himself and the arm of the couch as he thrusted, pinning him.

The heat was incredible, a tangible force as Iceman moved inside him, like the core of the earth expanding and exploding, coal bursting into diamonds. Maverick screamed, and _fuck_, he had a set of lungs on him, the sound itself making Iceman feel as if his carefully composed exterior were about to crack.

"Jesus," Iceman said aloud as he came, the _s_ lingering in his throat, and then, "Mitchell," softer, resting his hands on Maverick's hips.

Maverick had come before him and was elbows-down on the arm of the couch now, no longer trembling, pressed up against Iceman needily. His pulse jack-hammered underneath Iceman's fingertips as he slid one finger over his neck, then leaned down and kissed him there, underneath the earlobe, beside the jawbone that shifted as Maverick ground his teeth together.

"Had enough, Mitchell?" Iceman said quietly.

"Yes," Maverick replied. His voice cracked on the lone syllable.

Iceman silently went into the bathroom, turned the faucet to hot and wet a towel. He cleaned himself off, returned to Maverick and handed it to him.

Maverick wiped the come off his stomach and laid down on the couch cat-like, curled up.

Iceman knelt in front of him.

Their eyes locked, green on hazel. Months of unspoken longing, insecurities and resentment passed between them and drew Iceman's lips to Maverick's.

The kiss was radically different than all of the others Iceman had ever had. It lacked a polite pretense, the obvious yet intangible boundary.

Iceman brushed Maverick's dark hair away from his forehead and sat back on his haunches.

"Electrical fire, huh?" he said quietly.

Maverick grinned and then began to laugh quietly. "It wasn't my fault, Kazansky," he insisted.

"Of course not," Iceman said with just the right amount of condescension.

"_Fuck_ you," Maverick said softly, kissing him again.

He hadn't wanted Maverick in the first place, or he thought he hadn't, but now that he reflected on it, maybe it had been fate or some crap like that. The mysterious and omnipresent hand of God in the sky, playing with his dolls.

As long as God didn't break him, Iceman figured he didn't mind.


End file.
